Pirate!England x Reader Vehemently Part 10

And what the heart wants, the heart gets. You were sitting underneath the window in Francis’s cabin, and you were trying to fold yourself so tightly that you could be out of sight for just one moment. Despite the scalding cup of legitimate, untainted tea in your hands, you were cold.

You had a conjoining room with Francis’s, yes, but he insisted on your being with him. It wasn’t as if he were talking to you, and for that you were grateful. He was seated at his desk on the other side of the room, writing a few lines on a piece of parchment before setting it to the side and selecting another. Francis had taken out his ponytail, and his hair was trailing on his shoulders.

He was always grimacing when he thought you couldn’t see him—unlike the other captain you knew, who was openly grumpy. Francis was unsuccessfully trying to conceal his tempestuous nature. His anger was never directed to you, at least, not to your face, but you gathered Francis was an altogether unhappy person.

Perhaps he was trying to find happiness in you. You hoped this was false, but Francis would not leave you alone. He did not always speak to you, although he chattered on endlessly too often; he was the most repulsively garrulous person of your acquaintance. He would bring you into his quarters, as he had now, and request your company for a few minutes that would drag into hours. You were fortunate he was not speaking now. He never said anything useful; at least Allistor had slipped sometimes.

Francis’s conversations, however uninformative, were preferable to his suffocating efforts to court you. When you were at home with Spain, you would have desired nothing else, but now that you had a gentleman caller, you wanted to be left alone. Maybe it was just Francis and his inveigling that were so acrid. You had already done all you were able to bring his flirtations to a bare minimum.

It had been on the second night you were on the ship, and Francis had brought you out past curfew to the forecastle deck, no doubt to make it seem like a romantic tryst. It had been the first time you had noticed the unnatural cold of the ship. Francis had detected your slight shiver and had given you his coat; the gesture, instead of feeling romantic, had felt strained and didn’t help the chill.

Francis had maundered on end, admittedly pausing enough for you to speak, but you’d had nothing to say. He had told you that he had given you a day to recuperate, and you had thanked him. He had vaguely introduced you to the ways of the ship, like you didn’t already know, and had told you what places were prohibited. You had thought that was ridiculous, but you hadn’t let him know that. You had decided to check out the restricted areas later.

You haven’t yet, though.

Francis, after the lengthy introduction to the ship, had talked about himself for an astonishingly short time and had turned the conversation around to you. You had been taken aback at this; you had figured that Francis was flamboyantly a narcissist, and you had expected some rodomontade before even brushing on you. However, it had appeared that he did not think too well of himself, at least from your observations. You could be wrong, though—you had been before Francis.

He had said beautifully flowered things to you, some of which you hadn’t even understood because of his vast vocabulary, and bugger, that had bothered you. Francis could have been insulting you without your knowledge, but you had dismissed that theory. His goal was to win you over, not subtly slight you. You had decided that he genuinely had been trying to please you. It wasn’t every day that you were called cosmogyral.

It had been reasonably tolerable for the majority of the evening, but then things had taken a turn for the worse.

“…and despite it all, still I swear that I will never let anything happen to you. You are precious to me,” Francis had said, rather too nauseatingly for your tastes. He would have been charming anyone else, but with your past experience with him, Francis had not the luck.

He had noticed your aversion to his affections earlier, but he had not done anything to the point. Francis had morosely put his hand over yours. You had been still unable to shove it off completely, but you had found him easier to budge than Arthur.

Then Francis had addressed—the only time to date—the fact that the things you felt for him were less than fond. “Chaton—Barbados, I know that you do not think well of me,” he had said, glancing up at you from the side, “but I do hope that you will become fond of me in time.” Francis had pulled you towards him, much to your displeasure. “Please, at least consider me.” He had rested his chin on your shoulder as he wrapped his arms around your waist.

“Code,” you had spluttered in a state of panic, removing a piece of his hair from your mouth, “the pirate code. If…if there’s a prudent woman, the man who meddles with her without her consent will be put to death.” Francis had drawn his head from your shoulder with a lugubrious frown. “Please,” you said, looking at his cameo pinned at his collar, “I know it’s in there. And don’t say you’re not a pirate, because you bloody well are. The code applies to you.”

Francis had kept his eyes on his hand that had begun to clench part of your dress. You had frustrated him—obviously he hadn’t expected you to know the code. You had hoped he wouldn’t ask about exactly what happened on Arthur’s ship, and until the next moment, you had been successful.

“…I understand,” he had said after a pause, “Did…something happen to you when you were with Arthur?” It had been the first time you had seen him speak as if he were unsure of himself. You had not responded, so Francis had taken the answer to be positive. “Chaton!” He had gripped your shoulders. “Did Arthur do something…” He had frowned. “…untoward to you?”

You had shaken him off—finally something you could do, even though he must have been in shock. “Of course not,” you had said, “Nothing happened to me on that ship.” As Francis had expressed his relief, you had realised that the latter statement had been false—and frankly, that had startled you. You hadn’t the time to contemplate that at the time; you had to deal with the undesirably amative Francis.

“I understand,” he had said, although in time it became clear to you that he had not understood at all, “If you like, I shall only court you with words, and I shall do it at your own pace, yes?”

You had conveyed your revulsion to the suggestion as politely but simply as you were able, and Francis had narrowed his eyes with a grin that would haunt your nightmares for the nights to come. “I assure you, chaton, you will come to like me.”

Francis had knowingly put you on edge, and you had become increasingly uncomfortable in the next few minutes of appeasing words of his. You had fabricated an excuse of a sudden headache, and Francis, no doubt seeing through your plot, had escorted you to your room just off of his. You had almost escaped him for the night, but he had left the door that separated the two of you halfway opened. It had shown you that even though the illusion of privacy was present, you would never truly be alone.

You had underestimated how true that would be, you realised now, curling your feet under to sit on them. You were never alone.

Only contributing to your exasperation, Francis had severely limited your contact with anyone else in the crew, making him your primary companion. He had not explicitly told you not to communicate with anyone else, but you drew your own conclusions from his virulent expression that you were not to speak to the crew unless they initiated it.

Like he was currently, Francis rarely left his quarters, and therefore, you rarely left his quarters. He had little to do with his crew; he preferred to let the quartermaster discipline them. He spent his time writing letters and editing maps in his desk, and he was always scribbling in his blasted logbook, where you were certain that he was recording details of your ineptitude.

You were not completely inept; you knew that. Yes, you could do all of the formal things that were expected of you as a member of the Court, but you had learnt to do so much more. You could be perfectly prim and proper, even though you found that to be most stifling, but you could also do a reasonably mediocre job at practically anything on board, save navigating—Dylan had never let you touch his precious wheel. You had seen Francis’s boys work through the window, and some of them were absolute rubbish at caulking—from what you could see, at least; you couldn’t always get to the window where you could see over the side because of Francis. You knew you could do much better than they could. You wanted to get down to the galley, too. You wanted to see if all ship galleys were as specifically preposterous as Matthew’s.

Blast it, you thought, feeling a bit guilty for enjoying your tea, I just want to leave this cabin. I am going to drop dead of boredom. You glimpsed up at Francis, who crinkled the parchment upon which he was writing. Maybe then I could finally get off this ship. He looked up at you from his paper as he sharpened his quill, and he smiled in what he clearly thought was an illecebrous manner. It would’ve been, if it weren’t you at whom he was smiling. It really needs to be some other girl, you thought, Someone who actually cares for him. Francis just needs to let me be. He drew his attention to his letters again, his eyes flickering up to you and subtly licking his lips. Let me be somewhere else.

You set your tea aside. You inched out of your chair and over to the lone bookshelf on the wall. Making sure Francis was engrossed in his work, which he wasn’t, you selected an unassuming novella and somehow managed to knock over a decorative etui. It fumbled through your fingertips, and you caught it by smushing it against the lower shelf. You peeked over at Francis, who had put down his quill and folded his hands under his chin. You cleared your throat and scuttled back to your seat.

You crumpled up in your chair again, opened the book, and pretended to pore over it. You had already read every book in Francis’s quarters, but you didn’t want him to know. Except that blasted logbook, you thought, flipping a page with utmost antipathy, I’ve got to know what’s in it. You knew Arthur had one and that he kept the speed of the ship on certain days in it—at least, that’s all you saw him write. After all, he had a separate book for journaling. Francis, however, had no such book, and you never saw him record the speed. You deeply suspected that it was a list of all the young territories he’d seduced, and you hoped your name would never be added. Nevertheless, it seemed like adding your name was all there was for you to do here, save for reading the same books repeatedly and move the furniture an inch to the right in the few minutes that Francis left the cabin.

You exhaled and turned another page. You’d had entirely too much to do on the English ship. They worked you to death, and you admitted with some difficulty that you missed it terribly. You would even take both night watches at this point. You were reluctant to come to this conclusion, but you yearned for the little things on the ship. You wanted to climb the capstan again and talk with Seamus on the method of his flimsy scrimshaws; you wanted to help Alfred fix the mistakes in the sailcloth trousers he makes. You wanted to dash down to the hold and hide for a while, checking to assure Alice wasn’t drowning in the liquescent remnants of an open barrel. Trivial, you knew, but you wanted it back. Perhaps you could get some of it here, if you persisted.

But that wouldn’t be enough. You were able to pinpoint your cause for detesting this place with all of your being: it was that you were not being useful. You were just a figure at rest, and you could not stand it. You were part of the crew on the English ship; you were someone, and not just some incompetent trinket. You felt positively awful that you weren’t helping the ship function in any way, and you wanted to explode of your edgy nerves.

That’s it, you thought, I am leaving this cabin. You stood and tried to walk coolly past Francis. He caught your hand, held it just below his mouth, and said, “Chaton, you’re going outside?” He kissed your hand, his lips lingering on your shaking fingertips.

“I am,” you said, grimacing as he began to suck on one of your knuckles. There was little room for excuses here; you had to do something quickly. It was difficult to think with Francis doing that. You scanned his desk and remembered Arthur’s soaked journal. “But I do think tha—” You tipped over his inkwell, spilling it over his papers.

Francis released your hand and fussed over his letters by means of muttering obviously obscene French under his breath and wrenched the papers out of the ink.

You edged towards the door. “Oh, let me get something to clean…” You opened the door and bolted through it before Francis realised that all was not well.

Yes, you thought, your fingers grazing the doorknob. Galley? Galley.

Despite your trying to cross the deck as inconspicuously as possible, you were instantly plagued by crewmembers enquiring if you needed anything—if they were being too noisy and needed to be silenced, if you needed more reading material or tea, if anything. Impossible things. You could not even see any of their faces; they and their cold politeness blurred together. They were too overwhelming for someone who had seen one person for the past two weeks, and you felt a bit bemused. You dismissed them with a desperate wave of your hand, and they hurriedly returned to their stations.

You descended to the lower level to the galley, relieved to not have to search for it for very long, for it was similarly placed as on the other ship. When you opened the loosely-hinged door, the cook took you by surprise. It was the white-haired crewmember you had seen on the day of the exchange, and his appearance was indeed shocking, from his red eyes to his inside-out coat. He was hanging a crude broomstick on a hook on the wall.

He spun around when you entered. “What are you doing here?”

Ouch. His accent chafed. “Who are you?”

He crossed his arms. “I asked you first.”

“I’m—I’m looking for candlesticks,” you said, beshrewing yourself inwardly for inventing such an idiotic excuse.

“Then I’m Prussia,” he said, giving you his title only.

“Prussia?” you spluttered, “What are you doing here?”

“What?”

“You’re not allied with Francis, or anything!” You closed the door behind you as you continued to sputter incredulously, glancing around the galley, which was much smaller than Matthew’s. “You shouldn’t be here!”

“Well, nooooo,” he said, as if he were explaining it to a child, “But Holy Rome has sent me to sort out the Alsace thing. I’m staying here until it’s finished.”

“What Alsace thing? I’m pretty sure there isn’t some Alsace thing. What the heck are you doing here?” you asked in a monotonous tone.

“There is! I swear. Stuff with…where have you been living, under a rock?” He leant on the counter and stared across at you.

“I’ve been on Arthur’s ship, if that’s what you mean.” You pulled a stool over to sit on it.

He was visibly shaken, his nose crinkling as well. “You called him by his name.” He sounded disgusted. “England’s an empire, in case you haven’t noticed. Why aren’t you giving him the little respect he deserves?”

You had to stop the banter for a second. Why did you call Arthur by his name? When did that start? You couldn’t place it, but you felt like you had a right to—you had been on his crew; you had fought with him; you had seen him in a weakened state, and he you. That seemed like more than enough of a basis for names, and the titles had grown to be unnecessarily pompous to you. They now felt confining and prickly.

You scooted your seat forward and said, “I feel like I can since I was, you know, abducted by him. That seems like it should be enough, yes?”

“I suppose—”

“So, what’s your name?” You propped your head on your fist.

He pulled a chair up on the other side of the counter. “You mean you haven’t heard of the spectacular me?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Spectacular?”

He shook his head. “I know. I need to find another word.”

You dismissed that. “Name.”

“You mean you don’t know?”

You narrowed your eyes, pushing yourself up in order to look down at him.

His eye twitched. “Gilbert.”

“Well, Gilbert,” you said, clasping your hands together, “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“Hey, I never said you could use it,” he protested, flicking your nose.

“Mm, but I will,” you said, flicking him back. You had no idea why you were being so bold with Gilbert, but you guessed it was because of the silence you had endured for the two wretched weeks you had been on the ship. He was the only one who was genuinely interesting the whole time. You could more than tolerate Gilbert, despite his eccentricities; they were better than Francis’s unsettling talking in his sleep.

He sighed. “If you insist.” Gilbert turned back to his work, which appeared to be organising broomsticks, of all things. “I don’t have that much self-respect, anyway.”

“You called yourself spectacular earlier.”

“Eh,” he said, raising his finger at you, “Self-respect and narcissism are two entirely different things.”

“Ah, but—”

“Zip!” He brushed some broom straw.

You couldn’t fathom the point of the task. “Can I help you with that?” you asked, leaning over the counter.

“No,” Gilbert said, bending back straw, “You’re not to serve on ship.”

You tilted your head. “What? Why not?”

“Eh. Orders.”

“So what? It doesn’t matter—”

“Stop. I need Alsace to—”

“Fine, then, if it really bothers you that much,” you said, swinging your legs to the side and flexing your fingers. Neither of you said anything for the next few minutes, and the only sound was the rustling of the broom straw. You vaguely wondered why his boots were on the wrong feet.

After watching him struggle for a little while longer, you sighed and slid off of the stool. “Look, I have no idea what you’re doing,” you said, walking around to his surprising array of not only brooms but also baskets, paper fans, and seashells, “but please let me help—”

“Whoa. No,” Gilbert said, glancing over his shoulder,  “You can’t. Everyone’s been told not to let you—”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Don’t know."

“Okay, then.” You rested a hand on the counter and tapped your fingers. You needed to say something else—anything. You couldn’t just let that stand. “You know, Julius Caesar was kidnapped by pirates.” You wanted to kick yourself; no one says things like that.

Gilbert stopped his work for a few seconds before shaking his head.

Yeah, you thought, No one just says that. I can’t speak normally. Something is wrong with me.

He threw a broom into the pile of rubbish next to the baskets. “I suggest you go back to wait on Francis. He’ll be missing you by now.”